


You can have my everything

by Builder



Series: Heroverse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comforting Bucky, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, For the most part, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masculinity, Nat is a good bro, National Geographic and 80s rock, Politics, Sickfic, Swearing, Terrorism, Vomiting, homegrown terrorism, homophobic and racist language, major trigger warnings, non graphic rape, non graphic sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky turns off the water flowing from the faucet.  “Do I need to worry about you?”  He doesn’t take it any further, but it’s clear what’s been left unsaid.There are the goddamn tears again.  Every time Steve thinks he’s done, his eyes just start leaking again, making his nose run and his voice go into an empty croak.  “I…I don’t know.”Bucky drops the clothes on the floor and fiercely embraces him.  Another eternity passes, and Bucky whispers in Steve’s ear, “If I have to do this for the rest of the day, or the rest of the month, or however long to make sure nothing else bad happens, that’s what I’m gonna do.  And this, ya know, it doesn’t change who you are.  Or what you are to the world.  Or what you are to me.”____________________________________________________________________________________________________The unthinkable happens to Steve during a mission, and Bucky's there to ensure he doesn't have to think about anything at all until he's good and ready.





	You can have my everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheVillain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVillain/gifts).



> Thank you to TheVillain for sending this req. Thank you for giving me something to focus on. I haven't been having a good week, and sleep is not happening tonight, which is why this is up early (but I'm not complaining). The story is a little out of my comfort zone on a few different fronts, but hopefully it satisfies those of you looking for a story with a hurting Steve and more comforting Bucky. 
> 
>  
> 
> That said, this fic contains some really heavy stuff, and I understand if you need to turn back now. As always, the triggers are in the tags, but here’s your extra warning that this fic contains sexual assault/male rape. That part isn’t graphic, but it is described enough to give a gist of what’s going on and how characters are feeling both during and after. It’s ok if you don’t want to read this. (You can check out my new original work entitled Vanished; it might be more your cup of tea.) That said again, this is really all about the comfort.
> 
>  
> 
> Also contains some references to the current (summer 2017) American political climate, which could roil folks up, I suppose. I’m mostly trying to give this fic a timestamp of roughly now (quite a while post-CA: TWS, at least) and give our friend Cap a valid-ish reason to be on a mission doing what he’s doing.
> 
>  
> 
> Title courtesy of Nine Inch Nails.
> 
>  
> 
> Ok, now the canon talk. This IS canon as in not AU. Not exactly canon as in slightly noncompliant with pretty much all MCU movies. Assume everything’s good up through CA: TWS except SHIELD didn’t fall. Everything’s kind of good through CA: CW except Bucky didn’t go back into cryo, he now lives with Steve and is getting better while Steve isn’t a war criminal and still works for SHIELD.
> 
>  
> 
> Hopefully this does not feel like a recycling bin full of details from my other stories. I’ve said it before; I’m the biggest self-plagiarist of all time. And all these bits and bobs just fit together so well.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and I briefly lived in DC as a kid, and I have consulted a current metro map, but I might have screwed up a few things with the routes/landmarks/etc. I also don’t know anything about security work or rules governing security camera use.
> 
>  
> 
> And one last thing… If you’re familiar with C. Thomas Howell’s portrayal of Foyet (the Reaper) in series 4-5 of Criminal Minds, that’s kind of how I was picturing the grey-haired terrorist.
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr @Builder051 (It's a lovely sickfic blog).

Steve’s phone is buzzing on the bedside table.  He’s been awake for an hour or so, but he’s still loath to get out of bed.  He’s become accustomed to wallowing in its marshmallowyness until late on dreary weekends like this one.  Bucky stirs in his little spoon position and reaches for Steve’s leg as Steve reaches for the phone.

 

“Hello?”  It’s got to be at least 9 in the morning, but he sounds sleepy.

 

“Sorry to bother you on a weekend,” Fury’s voice says. 

 

“No, it’s alright.”  Steve adjusts the phone against his ear and swings his legs out of the nest of blankets.  “What’s going on?”

 

“A hostage situation,” Fury reports with what sounds like a touch more irritation than usual.  “We got a Boys and Girls Club summer camp of 54 children and 12 adult chaperones held at gunpoint in the bathroom of the McPherson Square Metro stop.”

 

Bucky’s scooted across the mattress to bind his warm right arm around Steve’s waist and dig his cool metal one into the small of his back, a gesture that clearly says _don’t go_.

 

Steve pats his hand and extricates himself from the loving seatbelt.  To Fury, he says, “Alright, I’ll be on my way.”  He grabs his suit from the back of the closet door and sets the phone on a shelf as he starts pulling it on.  He doesn’t need it to be on speaker to still hear Fury’s voice.  “Are police on scene?”  Then, because he can’t get the question out of his head, “Why are they having day camp on a Saturday?”

 

“A lot of these kids’ parents work weekends,” Fury says.  “Inner city kids.  Low income.  Children of color.”

 

“Got it.”  Steve steps into his boots, wondering exactly why Fury’s being so specific.  He’ll gladly save any child.  Or adult.  Regardless of race.  Though so far, the thing’s sounding more like a job for a hostage negotiator than a supersoldier.  He asks again, “And the cops?  Is the station closed?”

 

“Everything’s up and running per usual, except the restrooms are tagged out of order.  Metro transit security’s on scene, but no one else.  Abductors asked for the police not to be called. Didn’t say anything about SHIELD, though, so that’s why you’re up.”

 

“Ok.”  Steve puts on his helmet.

 

“One more thing.  You really need to know what you’re up against here,” Fury says. 

 

“Ok.”

 

“These are terrorists we’re talking about.  Looks like they could have alien tech from the security footage I’m seeing.  And they’ve definitely got Confederate flags,” Fury almost growls.

 

The pieces click together.  “Got it,” Steve says again, this time with a drawn out tone to show understanding of the subtext.

 

“There are some…important…parties that have reasons to not want this to make the news,” Fury says.  “But if it does, that’s why we need you in particular.  Your message, your legacy.  You hear me?”

 

“Yes sir,” Steve says.  “I’m on my way now.” 

 

“Godspeed, Soldier.”  Fury hangs up.

 

Steve fumbles his phone into his suit’s inner pocket, then grabs his shield and runs around the bed to kiss Bucky.  “I owe you pancakes.  Maybe breakfast for lunch?”

 

Bucky grins through his serious face.  It’s clear he’s heard everything.  “Just go save some kids.”

 

Steve sprints out of their suburb and runs adjacent to the metro’s orange line from Falls Church into the city.  It’s cloudy, and humidity hangs thickly in the warm late-summer air.  He passes Arlington National Cemetery and is gripped with something sadder than nostalgia, but north of despair.  The war’s been feeling closer than ever lately with neo Nazi references cropping up more and more often.  Steve’s been saying he’s worried for Bucky, but for once Bucky’s actually the one who’s doing alright with his schedule of household chores and online classes and VA visits. 

 

At Foggy Bottom, Steve jumps on the silver line to ride the last two stops.  Better to already be underground in case someone suddenly decides to bar entry to McPherson from ground level. He uses his SHIELD ID card to bypass the ticket gates, then pointedly avoids eye contact with the staring passengers on the train.  It’s his usual _I’m on a mission, don’t bother me_ face, and it works surprisingly well to stop admirers from asking questions and requesting autographs.

 

Just as Fury said, McPherson Square is open.  The station is rife with the typical slow-bustle of weekend mornings.  Families and kids are everywhere.  Tourist season is waning, but slow-moving, map-reading groups still clog the narrow, industrial hallways. 

 

Steve knows he’s in the right place when he sees numerous printed _out of order_ signs and yellow plastic _caution wet floor_ placards barricading the a men’s bathroom door.  Three metro security guards mill around outside the door. 

 

“How long have they been in there?” Steve asks as he approaches. 

 

“At least an hour,” a female officer with cappuccino skin and long curly black hair answers. 

 

Steve weighs the approximate time Fury called, the time it took him to run into the city, and the human propensity to exaggerate, and gives them 50 minutes.  “Any shots fired?”

 

“No,” a bald male officer weighs in.  “But I’m not sure their guns are, well, guns.  It makes more like a chainsaw noise?”

 

“Ok, any screaming?  Is anyone hurt?” Steve presses.

 

“They was screaming at first,” the woman volunteers.  “Maybe the first time they got shown the weapons?  But not a peep since then.”

 

“We’re in contact with officers up in the booth,” the third security guard, a young redheaded man, says.  “There’s one camera in the bathroom.  Low and near the door, so you can’t see in the stalls or between the urinal dividers or anything, but we know most of the captives are sitting on the floor, and there are four or five captors, armed and pacing.”

 

“Alright,” Steve says.  “Any demands?  Or have they said anything?”

 

“The camera feed doesn’t have sound,” the redhead continues.  “From here, it sounds mostly like threats.”  He gives a sideways glance at his two African American colleagues.  “You know, kind of racist stuff.”

 

“Yeah, I was warned,” Steve says.  “Are there threats of violence?”

 

All three officers nod.

 

“Ok, then.  I’m going in.  You stay here, keep the civilians away, and be ready to evacuate the hostages.”

 

They nod silently again. 

 

“Ok,” Steve says, steeling himself and pressing a gloved palm to the slightly grungy bathroom door.  He taps the heel of his hand a few times to produce a hollow echo. 

 

“What?!” comes a coarse shout from inside the bathroom.

 

“My name is Steve Rogers,” Steve says, picking the corners of his brain for everything he knows about dealing with kidnappers.

 

“We said no cops!” a different voice yells from inside.

 

“That’s not a cop, you moron.  That’s Captain America.”  It’s the first voice again, but quieter, a gruff echo of a whisper.

 

“But we said no cops or we’d kill a kid.”

 

Steve swings the door open, trying to mitigate his strength so it doesn’t bang off the wall.  “I can’t allow you to do that.”

 

The back three-quarters of the dirty tiled floor is overtaken with children, sitting, cowering, clutching each other.  A handful of college-aged women stand out in neon green logoed T-shirts, laying comforting hands on as many kids as possible.  They look barely older than the eldest camp kids, pushed further into youth by the tear tracks running down their caramel and ebony cheeks.

 

The front strip of floor, between the few stalls and row of sinks, is the terrorists’ territory.  Steve agrees with Fury’s earlier characterization as soon as he sees them.  Four men stand, shifting foot to foot and gripping ominous weapons that appear to be part assault rifle, part chainsaw, and part flamethrower.  One has a shaved head, one is salt-and-pepper, and the other two are blonde.  They wear generic white-trash plaid with denim, and all four are tattooed with words and pictures that seem distinctly aligned with ideas that have never been politically correct. And they have confederate flag bandanas tied over their noses and mouths like gas masks.

 

“And what are you gonna do about it, faggot?”  Salt-and-pepper seems to be the leader.  He aims his weapon at Steve, who hefts his shield in response.  “Yeah, we know what you are.  And you’re about as much our nation’s hero as these,” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the hostages, “are our nation’s children!”

 

“Oh.  Very much so, then?” Steve asks with menace locked behind false cheeriness. 

 

Salt-and-pepper discharges his weapon, sending a tongue of yellow flame at Steve’s chest.  The shield blocks the blast, and Steve charges him, knocking the barrel off-target and angling up toward the ceiling.  The flame hits one of the glass-paned fluorescent lights embedded in the room’s upper limit, sending a shower of glass and sparks down on them before draping half the room in darkness.

 

The spray of fire from salt-and-pepper’s weapon dissipates, but heat and buzzing immediately comes from further down as one of the blondes sends a leaf of flame into the nearest cluster of cowering kids.  They scream and immediately scramble back into the laps of their classmates, but Steve can tell one boy’s clothes have ignited.

 

“Stop, drop, and roll!” Steve instructs in a hurried shout.  He kicks the assailant in the shoulder hard enough to break his arm and send his weapon’s trajectory onto his fellow terrorists.  Then he descends on the boy, patting his flaming basketball shorts with his fireproof gloves until the blaze goes out. 

 

Fire shoots at him again, and Steve lifts his shield to protect himself and the kids closest to him.  The assault is relentless for a moment.  The vibranium conducts heat like an oven, but holds strong until the flames finally let up into the sound of pumping and reloading.

 

“Stop.  Stop!” Steve shouts.  He lifts his shield out to the side and the other hand in half-goalpost hands-up-don’t-shoot.  It’s becoming delicate.  The room’s too enclosed.  The terrorists have too much firepower.  Yet, they could’ve had the whole place up in flames by now.  What are they waiting for?

 

“I know you don’t want to kill kids,” Steve says.  “I know you don’t.  We can talk about this.”  He gets slowly to his feet.

 

“Yeah, of course you wanna talk it out.  Like a faggot fucker asshole, like a little girl.”  Salt-and-pepper snorts at his own joke.

 

Steve smells burned flesh and hair under the scent of singed synthetic fabric.  The boy under his feet is injured.  Not enough to be life-threatening, but still fairly badly. 

 

A paper towel is dangling from the dispenser on the wall.  Steve grabs it and takes one step toward the nearest sink.  “I’m getting him a wet paper towel,” he says evenly.  “Then you can tell me why you think this is a good idea.”

 

The little boy can’t be older than eight, and his eyes are wet and he’s shaking with fear and pain.  Steve maintains eye contact in a manner he hopes is silently comforting as he squats and lays the dripping napkin over the raw, blistered area on his thigh.  The boy’s breathing is ragged, and quickly pats his knee before getting to his feet again and angling himself so there aren’t kids directly behind him.

 

“What, you like that kid?” Salt-and-pepper says with a huff.  Steve imagines he’s sneering behind his bandana.  “You like little critter kids?  You a pedophile too, faggot?”

 

Steve inhales and ignores him.  “Why did you take these hostages?”

 

“Did you feel up that kid’s leg?”

 

“I know murder isn’t your endgame.  Why did you take them?”

 

Salt-and-pepper looks down the sight of his rifle, aiming toward the middle of the cluster of children.  “If you answer my question, I might not shoot,” he teases.  “And then I might just answer yours.”

 

“Ok,” Steve takes a breath.  “I administered first aid to a child who is injured.  First aid includes comfort.”

 

“Mmmm,” Salt-and-pepper hums, aiming his weapon to and fro.  He gestures for his two blonde henchmen to join him.  “I just don’t quite believe you, Cap.”

 

The bulky blonde terrorists train their rifles on the kids, and the grey-haired one lowers his.  “What are you?”

 

“I’m not a pedophile.”  Steve digs his feet into the floor and grits his teeth.

 

“But what __are__ you?  I’ve said it enough times; I want to hear it from you.”

 

“It’s none of your damn business,” Steve says.  His hands are clammy in his gloves.

 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Salt-and-pepper chuckles.  He points for his skinhead buddy to join the blondes.  “This is all about give and take.”

 

Steve stays rooted for a moment.

 

“No?  Well, then, fire on my count.  Three.”  He holds up three fingers.  “Two.”

 

“Ok, I don’t have a problem saying it,” Steve says, hoping his slight tick toward hyperventilation doesn’t give away his anxiety.  “I’m gay.  So what?”

 

“And what does that mean?”

 

“You’re not holding up your end very well,” Steve says.  “Your turn to answer.  Why’d you take these kids?”

 

“And you’re missing the point of this exercise,” Salt-and-pepper continues.  He kicks the door of one of the toilet stalls, producing a sonorous, echoing bang.  “Tell me what it means.”

 

“Kids don’t need to hear it,” Steve says, attempting to sound offhand and logical.

 

“Oh, I’m sure it will be very educational for them.  Tell me what the fuck it means!”

 

Steve swallows.

 

“Tell me or open fire in three.  Two.”

 

What he really needs is to call for backup, but he’d been in such a hurry earlier that Steve hadn’t even put his comm in his ear.  It’s probably still in his pocket with his phone and ID.  The situation is sliding out of his control with every breath.  He can take flame-throwing terrorists four to one no problem, but not in an enclosed space filled with reflective surfaces and little kids.  He doesn’t want to be the one to put them back in bodily danger, so the only apparent choice is to answer.

 

“Ok.  Ok.  Being gay means…being a man who, who prefers to have intercourse with other men.”  It shouldn’t be such a mouthful, but it’s taken a solid couple years of support and pamphlets and PFLAG for him to get ok with himself. 

 

“Did you hear that, kids?” Salt-and-pepper says in an exaggerated stage whisper, like a performer on some educational TV show.  “Captain America puts his dick in other boy’s buttholes.  And then they get to do it to him.  And he likes it!”

 

“Come on,” Steve says, “That’s no way to speak about a fellow American.”

 

“You’re not American.   You’re a degenerate!”  Salt and pepper yells.  “You’re all degenerates!  You’re so interested in why, all the time why this, why that, why’d you take the kids, why’d you need to know…  You don’t need to know.  That’s the whole point.  We’re in charge.  It’s our country.  Those of us who pay taxes deserve a say in the lives of those who live on our money.  I though a nice story about life on my great-grandpappy’s plantation would suit these shits better than a day at the African American whatever the fucked up fake history museum.  But now that you’re here.  I think this is maybe even better…”  He’s laughing, almost madly.  Steve imagines a deranged grin under the bandana. 

 

“We’re going to do a little demonstration,” Salt-and-pepper goes on.  “I need a volunteer.  Are any of you named Tawanda, by chance?”  He opens a hand toward the kids.  “No?  No Tawandas?  What about Shaquanda?”  He enunciates the names with a mirth of bitterness, as if he’s never heard anything as ridiculous.  “Your uneducated parents are always naming you such…stupid things.  Surely one of you has one of those stupid names.  Shaquanda, stand up or Billy’s gonna open fire.”

 

The thug with the shaved head cocks his weapon. 

 

“Going once.  Going twice.  The floor’s yours, Shaquanda.”

 

Steve’s ready to knock Billy into the wall, but everything comes to a grinding halt when one of the young women gets to her feet.  She has on the green t-shirt of a youth worker, so she has to be at least 18, but she looks like a child.  Maybe 5 feet tall, certainly under 100 pounds.  She’s shaking.  And as Steve watches, she fumbles her name tag between her hands.  It definitely says _Elizabeth_ , but he doubts anyone else can read the small font over the distance of several yards. 

 

“Congratulations, Shaquanda,” Salt-and-pepper says.  “Come on, Billy’s gonna escort you over here.”  The skinhead grabs her skinny arm and pulls her out of the sea of kids and up in front of the first toilet stall.

 

Salt-and-pepper turns back to Steve, who is still poised to battering-ram into any of the terrorists who think of using their weapons.  “We’re gonna do a demonstration.  Actually, we’re gonna play a game.  I’m gonna tell you up front, it’s rigged.  You’re gonna win no matter what.  You’re also gonna lose no matter what.”

 

Steve weighs his options.  He could attack now, take out Billy, then probably get the two blondes before they have a chance to fight.  But then Salt-and-pepper would certainly open fire on someone, and that just feels too risky.  He can imagine the headlines now, _Captain America lets kids burn…_

 

“So, Mr. Captain faggot,” Salt-and-pepper says, poking Steve’s shield with the muzzle of his rifle, “You pick.  Will Shaquanda be the victim, or the witness?”

 

“You don’t want to hurt kids,” Steve says.  Not an answer, but his best last-ditch effort at hostage negotiation. 

 

“Finally, you’re talking some sense,” Salt-and-pepper sighs with over-dramatic relief.  “All the shit kids go free once they’ve witnessed this.  Like a post card to make sure they remember who’s really in charge here.”

 

Steve doesn’t believe a word of it, but if he’s going to get anyone out of here, there’s going to have to be give and take. 

 

“How’re you having this work?” he asks.

 

“It’s so simple,” Salt-and-pepper says.  His tone would imply Steve’s a little mentally slow.  “Billy’s gonna kill Shaquanda.  Look at him, he’s just dying to light her up.”  The words come out like Billy’s a dog desperate to go on a walk or something.  “I’ll have my gun on you, and them two’ll be set on the rest of them kids,” he waves at the two blonde thugs, “So if anybody interferes, everybody dies.”

 

“That one’s obviously the victim option, what about the other one?” Steve asks, disgust coming through.

 

“I’m so glad you asked, ‘cause that one’s so much more exciting.”  Salt-and-pepper’s eyes twinkle manically.  “I’m gonna fuck you in the ass.”

 

The words don’t exactly sink in until he’s saying them again.  “I’m gonna fuck you.  Billy holds Shaquanda at gunpoint.  Them two keep an eye on the kids.  And if you do anything but accept your place in the natural order of things, everybody dies.”

 

There’s no choice.  Steve knows there’s no choice.  Every option leads to a dead end.  Only one makes sure no one gets hurt.  Well, no one but him.  Physically, at least.  They’re all going to be scarred in the mind, probably have been since the standoff began. 

 

But even under the circumstances, Steve can’t pick that.  He can’t.  It’s…he can’t even consider it.  But, at the cost of a girl’s life.  A young woman, really, but still a kid.  With a hero complex, poised to do good in the world.  She reminds him so much of himself.  And he knows he has to. 

 

“Won’t that make you a degenerate?” Steve asks quietly, staring Salt-and-pepper in the eyes and making his choice.

 

“Trust me, I won’t be laying with you like I do with my woman,” the terrorist says.  He grips Steve by the chin strap of his helmet and drags him toward the first toilet stall, the large handicapped-accessible one.  “Billy and Shaquanda, you get to watch the show.”  Salt-and-pepper holds the flimsy door open for them.  “Everyone else will have to do with the audio-only version.”

 

Steve automatically cozies up to the wall.  He wraps one hand around the railing beside the toilet and resists turning his back to his audience.  He grits his teeth and tries not to think about it as his shield finds the floor and his suit is stripped down below his waist.  The only small comfort is in the fact that the security camera won’t give all the metro transit officers and SHIELD agents watching a view of what’s happening now.

 

He hears and feels Salt-and-pepper warming himself up before he’s suddenly pushing into Steve, and everything’s an explosion of pain and vertigo.  If the five senses could be summed up in a color, Steve thinks it would be red.  The taste of metal blooms deep in his throat and the scent of discharged pyrotechnics scorches his nose.  The air is uncomfortably hot, or maybe cold, and excruciating achiness comes up through his core, down his quads, up through his stomach to his heart and out to his shoulders.  Blood pounds in his ears, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut against swirling lava.  He feels the handicapped rail buckling under his hands and starting its own banging rhythm against the tile as it starts to dissociate from the wall.  Steve bites his lip until he tastes blood, but he can’t help letting out a tiny grunt of breathless pain as the pressure feels like it’s shredding his entire body.

 

“Does that feel good to you?” Salt-and-pepper hisses in his ear.

 

Steve doesn’t know how long it goes on.  He’s just grateful when it’s over.  He lets his forehead hit the wall; he can’t bring himself to turn around and make eye contact with any of them. 

 

The sound of Salt-and-pepper doing up his zipper seems to echo in the room, intermingling with little breathy sobs that seem to be coming from Elizabeth.

 

“Congratulations,” Salt-and-pepper says.  “You lose.  I mean, you win.  But, well, you know.”  He claps Steve on the bare shoulder, and Steve’s so repulsed he automatically backhands the terrorist, catching him in the shoulder. 

 

“No, no.  No fighting back, or we’ll torch the kids.”

 

“Let the damn kids go,” Steve says, still to the wall.  His voice shakes, and dizziness is swirling around his peripheral vision.

 

“I’m not a liar.  They’re leaving now.  So long as you stay put,” Salt-and-pepper says.  Then, louder, “Kids?  You’re free to go.  Just remember, every time someone teaches you about freedom, they’re lying to you.”

 

There’s a sonorous scuffling as the kids and their chaperones hasten to exit the bathroom.

 

“See you around, Captain faggot,” Salt-and-pepper hisses into Steve’s ear.  The air and errant flecks of spit make him cringe, and it takes all of his shaky self-control to keep from lashing out. 

 

Heavy footsteps follow the kids’ quick, light ones, and Steve knows the terrorists are exiting the bathroom.  He hadn’t thought this far ahead.  What are the metro security officers going to do?  Try to arrest them?  Let them leave?  He just hopes it doesn’t result in them getting hurt. 

 

Time seems to be moving weirdly, thickly, like melted ice cream that’s barely dripping, then suddenly running down his arms and onto the floor.  Steve gets one arm back into his suit, then has to stop because he’s so nauseous.  An uncertain amount of time staring at the edge of his shield against the tile floor.  Then scrambling to get his clothes back in place because he can hear the door opening again. 

 

“Captain?” An uncertain voice says.  “It’s Jonathan with metro security?”  The voice clicks into place as belonging to the redheaded guard Steve spoke to earlier.  That encounter feels like decades ago.

 

Steve picks up his shield and stumbles out of the bathroom stall.  “Yeah, I—I’m…”   What is he going to say?  __I_ ’m fine?  I dealt with them? _

 

“The kids are all gonna be ok, thanks to you,” Jonathan says.

 

“And what about the, the, uh…”  Steve’s utterly failing at words.  He just can’t make his lips twist into the shapes necessary to enunciate the words.

 

“Security officers got one in custody.  The other three ran out to street level, and the cops are dispatched,” Jonathan reports. 

 

“Ok,” Steve whispers.

 

“Are you ok?” the young officer asks, taking a step toward Steve as Steve takes a step to the wall beside the door.  “Do you need medical help?”

 

“No,” Steve gasps.  He knows there’s no color in his face under his helmet, and everything from his jaw to his fingertips is trembling.

 

“What can I do?  What do you need?”

 

Steve’s grateful he’s asking those questions rather than…others.  “Have they shut down the station?”

 

“They’re going to, any second.”

 

“Is orange line open?  Headed to Falls Church?”

 

“I think so,” Jonathan says.

 

“I need to get on that train.”  It’s the only way he’ll get home; it hurts when Steve walks.  And he’s not going to call someone to come pick him up.

 

“Ok.  Ok, yeah,” the young officer says.  “I’ll give you an escort to the platform?”

 

“Ok, sure,” Steve says, trying not to hobble.

 

He does his best not to look too much in any one direction, but he catches a glimpse of Billy the skinhead struggling in handcuffs and a couple more security officers manhandling him away from the group of kids, who are being shaken down by paramedics.

 

“You sure you don’t want to talk to a medic?” Jonathan asks, following Steve’s line of sight.

 

“No.  No medic,” Steve says firmly.

 

“Ok.  Your train platform’s just up here.”

 

No sooner his he seated in one of the hard plastic seats when a muffled voice over the station loudspeaker asks all metro patrons to please evacuate.  Luckily, the train’s doors are already sliding shut, and it descends into a westward-bound tunnel before the announcer’s finished speaking. 

 

Steve pulls his feet up onto the bench and sits sideways with his head on his knees and fights the urge to vomit.  What’s he doing?  Where’s he going? 

 

Home, ostensibly.  That’s where he feels safe. 

 

Steve’s phone vibrates against his chest.  Fury, no doubt, wondering why there’s nothing to see on metro security video and why any calls to Steve’s comm have come up with only the sounds of pocket.

 

He’s supposed to report to SHIELD HQ following his missions, to fill out paperwork and get checked out in medical.  But having someone poke and prod him and ask questions, that’s about the last thing Steve wants to do. 

 

The SHIELD employee guidelines play in Steve’s head.  Protocols for avoiding…  Reporting…  Then some of the pamphlets he’d brought home when he’d first come out of the ice, all about consent and respect and…what tends to follow when that doesn’t happen.

 

But he had consented, hadn’t he?  He never said no or said stop or resisted or anything.  He stood there and took it like a dead doornail, threat to a teenaged girl’s life notwithstanding.  Would it even be reportable?  If he wanted to report it.  Which he doesn’t.

 

If he could just get home and…what?  Slit his wrists?  It’s disturbing how appealing that actually sounds.  But he can’t do that; Bucky’ll figuratively murder him if he even gets close to hurting himself.

 

Bucky.  Bucky’s at home, and there’s no way he’ll stand by and let Steve sulk.  He’s fiercely protective and almost as much a hothead for moral justice as Steve.  This won’t change anything between them, Steve knows that, but he still dreads trying to tell his partner as much as anyone else.  He imagines the inevitable __what happened?__ , and his stomach twists.

 

Breathe, Steve tells himself.  Live, at least for the moment.  Be here, on a train.  And don’t puke on one.

 

Steve’s phone is vibrating again when he leaves the transit station in Falls Church.  He’d done a good enough job of curling in on himself that no one had bothered him on the train, but now that he’s upright and blinking in in the white-skied brightness, he’s getting a fair number of smiles and waves that he can’t begin to return.  It feels like everyone, in person and from a distance, is trying to get a piece of him. 

 

It’s a couple of miles to the town house he shares with Bucky.  Usually a fast-paced walk or jog up to the metro stop takes a matter of minutes, but with every step shooting pain up Steve’s legs and into his back and stomach, it’s over half an hour before he finally limps up to the front porch. 

 

Steve takes a deep breath of the humid air as he fumbles his keys.  Literally anything is better than what he just experienced.  But he still dreads everything. 

 

Steve lets himself in.  From the entryway, he can see Bucky sitting on the living room couch, working on his laptop.  Bucky looks toward the door and shuts his computer, the sound cutting out mid-sentence in what seems to have been a psychology lecture.  “Hey,” he says.

 

Steve doesn’t answer, he just drops his shield, helmet, and gloves into a pile by the door.  Maybe it’s the small change in air pressure between outdoors and inside the house, something to do with humidity or AC, but all of a sudden his head is throbbing so badly that he’s nauseous as all get-out.  Again.  He takes off for the downstairs bathroom, passing close enough to the couch to give Bucky a good eyeful of his wan complexion and sweaty upper lip.

 

“What—what’s wrong?  What happened?  Steve?”  Bucky’s on his feet, following him.  Steve shuts the bathroom door and locks it.  He hears Bucky’s open palm against the wood.  “Stevie? Hey, talk to me.”

 

Steve braces himself over the sink and takes in a shaky breath.  He can’t look at himself in the mirror.  He breathes again while his stomach twists and he feels like he’s going to fall over.  Steve gags over the sink.

 

“Babe?”  Bucky calls, bypassing curiosity and jumping into concern.  “Open up, this doesn’t feel right.”

 

Steve breathes into another empty retch.  It’s after 12 and he hasn’t had breakfast yet.  There’s nothing to purge, but his stomach’s set on turning itself inside out.

 

“Steve, come on,” Bucky says, but he breaks off in a string of curses when his phone rings.  Steve hears him give an irritated, “Hello.”

 

Silence.  He can’t hear the voice on the other end of the line through the closed door and the amplified sound of his own heartbeat.

 

“I don’t know, he just got home.”

 

Silence.  It’s someone looking for Steve.

 

“In the bathroom puking.  He won’t let me in.”

 

Silence.  Interested in his condition.  Probably SHIELD.

 

“Fuck, I don’t know.  Maybe he’s poisoned, or just saw something gross.”

 

Shorter silence.  Maybe Fury?

 

“Jesus, will you stop asking me?  He doesn’t feel good.  I’ll tell him to call you later.  Or call Fury.  Whatever.  I’ll get back to you.”

 

Silence.  Not Fury, then.  It’s probably Nat.

 

“Yeah, ok.”

 

Bucky’s phone drops onto something hard with a clatter, then he’s swearing under his breath again.  “Jesus fucking Christ.”  He knocks on the door.  “Stevie?  I want to give you space, but that’s not gonna happen right now.”

 

There’s a scraping sound as Bucky manages to break the lock off the door without damaging anything else.  Steve’s mid-heave again, and he doesn’t see Bucky’s face fall from ruddy irritation to pale panic. 

 

“God, Steve.  What happened?”

 

Steve spits into the sink.  His mouth tastes terrible even though he hasn’t actually brought anything up.  It’s all remnants of non-existent gas chamber fumes, that metallic taste creeping up to choke him again.  He swallows and groans at the same time, letting out a small “guh” that sounds weak and pathetic. 

 

Then Bucky’s hand is on him, comfortingly cupping the back of his neck, but even though it feels good, Steve’s mind tells him it doesn’t.  He swats at his partner, but ends up sending his weak knees off balance.  Steve trips a couple steps backward and ends up collapsing onto the closed toilet.  The impact sets off a chain reaction of pain flares, and before he knows it he’s retching once more, this time coughing up a mouthful of bile so sour he feels like it’s melting his eyeballs. 

 

Bucky holds the trashcan up for him.  When Steve breaks off with a wet hack, Bucky whispers, “Ok, breathe.  You’re ok.”  He gets Steve a little paper cup of water.

 

But Bucky doesn’t know the half of it.  Steve’s not ok, will never be ok.  God, it would better if he just died now.  A tremble of a sob comes from between Steve’s lips, sending a spray of moisture with it. 

 

Bucky takes the cup from Steve’s limp grasp.  “Hey,” he says, coaxing Steve to make partial eye contact.  Bucky waves his fingers gently, asking permission to touch. 

 

Steve sniffs and shrugs.  The world shifts in an almost sickening lurch, and suddenly his chin is draped over Bucky’s shoulder.  A flurry of _get away, get away_ and _you’re safe_ and _oh my fucking god_ converge into a wordless emotional tidal wave.  Tears run down Steve’s face, down his neck, into Bucky’s hair and off onto his shirt until they’re both damp. 

 

“Alright.  Alright.  Ok.”  Bucky keeps up a murmur of sympathies, probably borrowed from Steve’s whispers to him back when he was still struggling back to normal after his years with Hydra.

 

Time’s doing the weird glopping-up thing again, and Steve doesn’t know if he’s so much as blinked or if a year’s passed when Bucky’s asking him a question and combing through the buzz of hair on the back of his neck.

 

“Did, uh, I gotta ask, ‘cause this doesn’t happen to you a lot.  Do you think you were exposed to a bio agent or something?  Do I need to drag you to a hospital?”

 

Steve shakes his head. 

 

“You just…feeling sick?”  Bucky’s plainly at a loss, but it’s not stopping him from flexing his dormant-since-before-the-war caretaker muscles.

 

Steve shrugs.

 

“Ok.  That’s.  We can work with that,” Bucky whispers.  “You wanna get cleaned up?  Might help you feel a little better.”

 

Steve takes a deep, sighing breath and nods into Bucky’s shoulder.  Then his eyes well up with more salty spillover because Bucky’s exactly right, he feels filthy and defiled and unfit to be in their clean, white-fixtured bathroom because he belongs in dirt and subway tile and among the dregs of society.  And Bucky doesn’t even know. 

 

“Ok.”  Bucky reaches around him to turn on the shower.  Within a minute, the small room’s full of warm steam.  It loosens the knot in Steve’s chest enough for him to melt over his own knees and plant his hands on the floor beside his booted feet.  Bucky bends to untie the laces. 

 

“You good to get out of your suit?” he asks.

 

Steve nods and gets himself upright.  He gets it down to around his waist, but is reluctant to take it further.  Sitting there idiotically, half dressed and half hyperventilating, is probably worse than it would feel to just be naked and exposed and over with. 

 

“You sure you got it?”  Bucky’s only trying to be helpful, but it feels like a slap.

 

Steve drops his suit around his ankles.  He steps out of it and pulls back the shower curtain.  He has one foot over the edge of the tub when Bucky’s hand closes around his wrist.  “Steve.”  It’s a gasp.  Bucky has a washcloth clutched in the other fist, and his eyes are trained down at the pile of Captain America suit on the floor.  It’s partially inside out, and Steve’s boxer briefs are up on top. 

 

Steve looks away from the white-crusted bloodstain before it can imprint on the backs of his eyelids, but he’s too late.  Maybe it’s his enhanced eyesight.  He can’t look at Bucky or at the steam-frosted mirror or really anywhere. 

 

“Steve.  My…what…”  Bucky sounds like he’s been stabbed in the gut.  Steve feels like he’s going to pass out.  The silence might be more uncomfortable than the words, and it goes on forever. 

 

Finally, Bucky seems to snap back to his senses.  “You can’t shower,” he says blankly. 

 

“Huh?”  Steve would’ve already stepped into the warm spray if he felt like he could without being a fall risk.

 

“If we’re gonna go to the hospital, you can’t shower.”  Bucky’s voice has gone hard.

 

“I don’t…”

 

“You have to report it!  We’re gonna find the creep who did this!” 

 

It’s too much.  Steve’s suddenly throwing up again.  He trips over the edge of the bathtub and gets on his knees in front of the toilet.  Water and stomach acid splash up from his throat and almost drown out the sound of Bucky pacing and yelling behind him.

 

“What kind of fucking scum thinks he can do that kind of shit?!”

 

“I’m gonna track him down and rip his face off his skull!”

 

“I just.  Fucking…”

 

“Fuuuuuuck!”

 

Finally Steve finishes panting into the toilet bowl and leans shakily back against the edge of the tub.  The shower’s still running, and the rainfall sound is soothing his breathing back to a normal pace.  “Stop saying…” Steve chokes. 

 

Bucky’s a foulmouthed warrior at the best of times, but that particular curse word, drawn out like that, all on its own.  It’s not helping.

 

“I don’t—Steve, you don’t, but—but what, really…”  Bucky’s tact has changed.  Now he’s caught between comforter and protector and sympathizer and assassin.  Steve can hear the gravel in his voice, the poor man who’s no longer used to being in this position suddenly overwhelmed with contradictory instincts. 

 

He feels like he owes Bucky an answer.  At least a couple of words to prove he didn’t get snuck up on in an alley or something.  He’s not a weak little kid anymore.  He’s strong enough for this to not to happen.  But, still, it did.  And now he has to be strong enough to get past it.

 

“It, I…” Steve starts, his voice between hoarse and nonexistent.  “It was…”  He can’t even bring himself to say _this_.  “Or kids.”

 

There’s a long pause.  Then, “It’s not your fault.”  Bucky sits on the floor against the cabinets under the sink.  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

Steve vaguely nods, then rides out the vertigo the motion brings.  He knows Bucky’s right; he made the right choice to keep the kids safe, given the circumstances.  But, the fact that the circumstances even existed at all…that’s what’s wrong.  He should’ve somehow found a way to fight himself out.  He should’ve known what the terrorists were up to and beaten them to a pulp before they even had a chance to apprehend the day camp group on the metro.  He just…should’ve known better.  Because this kind of stuff just doesn’t happen to people like him.

 

“You don’t want to report it.”  It’s gentle, and it’s a statement, but Bucky has a lick of disappointment in his voice. 

 

Steve shakes his head and brings his hands up to steady his temples.  “I…I can’t.”

 

“You can if you want to.  It’s supposed to be confidential.  It doesn’t have anything to do with who you are as a person.”

 

“Cops’re after them already.  For the kidnapping,” Steve sighs. 

 

Bucky heaves a matching breath.  “Ok.  Ok.  I just.  God.  Fuck.  Ok.  Do you wanna shower?”

 

They’ve already wasted gallons of water.  Steve’s desperate to scrub himself raw, and maybe drown himself in the tub when he’s finished.  “Yeah,” he murmurs.  “Water bill’s gonna be…through the roof.”

 

“Oh, who cares?” Bucky says.  He stands up and starts yanking off his jeans.  “Come on, you look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand up.” 

 

He’s right, Steve does feel ridiculously lightheaded.  And that points him back down the path of weak and pathetic and filthy.  Tears are flowing down his cheeks again as Bucky hauls him off the floor and steps them both over the rim of the tub. 

 

They end up sitting, Bucky partially clothed in boxers and a t-shirt and Steve naked and exposed, leaning into Bucky’s chest as the water sprays a warmish rainfall over them.  A trace of diluted rustiness trails from Steve’s body down the drain, and they both pretend not to see it. 

 

Steve tries to refocus his mind.  He’s never been good with meditation or even mindfulness, trivial concerns and fleeting thoughts always seem to be in the way.  Now he wishes some small care about the number of eggs in the fridge or Bucky taking a final exam would come in and interrupt his thoughts, because that would be a lot easier to deal with.  The looming images of Salt-and-pepper’s glistening eyes and dirty bandana, the scuffed and dingy tile, the handicapped railing pulling in and out of the wall…

 

But, no.  He needs to think about…Bucky’s arm around his waist, the metal warmed in the hot shower water that’s rapidly running out.  The feel of wet t-shirt behind his back.  The scent of soap that Bucky’s just swept across his shoulders. 

 

They spend too long in the shower, and Steve’s freezing by the time Bucky turns of the now-cool water and hands him a towel. 

 

“If you can chill for a second, I’ll get you something to wear,” Bucky offers. 

 

Steve nods, unable to smile at the pun.  His teeth are chattering, and he can see Bucky’s shoulders trembling as he drips across the bathroom to pick up the pile of dirty laundry and run upstairs.  Once he’s left the room, Steve leans on the sink.  The mirror is still too fogged up to show his reflection, and for that he’s grateful.  He thinks seeing himself would make everything hurt more.  And everything still hurts a lot.

 

He aches up through his bowels and into his lower stomach.  His chest is heavy and tight, and his forehead throbs, still ricocheting nausea down into his throat.  Steve pops open the medicine cabinet and hopes there’s something there to dull the pain.  They keep most medical supplies upstairs in the master bathroom, but luckily, there’s a lone bottle of ibuprofen on its side on the middle shelf. 

 

Steve pops the lid.  There are maybe 10 pills left, and he tips them down his throat without a second thought.  It’s barely enough to take edge off with his 4-times-faster metabolism, and definitely not enough to do anything else.  He holds the empty white plastic bottle under the tap and chugs the small amount of water as a chaser.

 

“What’re you doing?”  Bucky’s back, dressed in sweats, hair still wet and tangled, and clutching an armful of Steve’s pajamas.  “How many of those did you take?”

 

“I don’t know,” Steve mumbles.  “10?  12?  There weren’t that many left.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“I think so.”

 

Bucky turns off the water flowing from the faucet.  “Do I need to worry about you?”  He doesn’t take it any further, but it’s clear what’s been left unsaid.

 

There are the goddamn tears again.  Every time Steve thinks he’s done, his eyes just start leaking again, making his nose run and his voice go into an empty croak.  “I…I don’t know.”

 

Bucky drops the clothes on the floor and fiercely embraces him.  Another eternity passes, and Bucky whispers in Steve’s ear, “If I have to do this for the rest of the day, or the rest of the month, or however long to make sure nothing else bad happens, that’s what I’m gonna do.  And this, ya know, it doesn’t change who you are.  Or what you are to the world.  Or what you are to me.”

 

They both breathe shakily for a moment.  Steve swallows hard.  “Ok.”

 

“Ok,” Bucky echoes.  “Put your clothes on and I’ll get you something to eat.  You never had breakfast, and that much ibuprofen on an empty stomach is gonna make you barf again.”

 

“I, uh, I owe you pancakes,” Steve remembers.

 

“Save it for another day,” Bucky says.  “How about a sandwich?  Or eggs?  I could do an egg sandwich.”

 

“Sure,” Steve says without enthusiasm.  He gets his pajama bottoms and t-shirt on, then pads out to the kitchen table. 

 

Bucky cues up Pandora to play 1930s and 40s popular hits.  Judy Garland starts up with _Over the Rainbow_ , and Bucky hums along as he stuffs bread into the toaster.  Steve is hit with a mental image of Bucky doing just that to a similar soundtrack, then buttering the thin white slices and dangling them in front of Steve’s stuffy nose, urging him to eat up and bring strength back to his sickly body.

 

It’s too close for comfort.

 

“Can we, uh, listen to something else?” he asks, absently shuffling the papers and magazines on the corner of the table.

 

“Yeah, here,” Bucky immediately replies.  “Anything in particular you want?”

 

“No, just something a little less, I don’t know…” Steve trails off.

 

“Ok…”  Def Leppard’s _Pour Some Sugar on Me_ starts.  “Better?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Bucky’s sharp, and he seems to catch on to what Steve doesn’t want to be reminded of even if Steve can’t say it.  “Would you catch this if I threw it at you?”  He’s holding up a Gatorade.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says again.  He poises his hands like a catcher’s mitt, then snatches the bottle out of the air as it hurtles toward him.  He unscrews the cap and takes a cautious sip.  It tastes sweet, and his head throbs when he swallows.  Dehydration’s a bitch.

 

The sound of eggs sizzling in a frying pan fills the room.  The kitchen’s become Bucky’s territory recently.  They don’t keep up traditional male and female roles in their relationship, but besides Steve’s weekend forays into sausage and pancakes or steaks on the grill, he hardly cooks.  Even the kitchen table’s become as much Bucky’s desk as it is a place to eat.  There are a couple back issues of National Geographic, syllabi for psychology and world history classes at the University of Maryland, and a couple well-worn pamphlets on PTSD along with a neat mess of writing implements and unopened mail.

 

Steve pulls out one of the magazines and stares down at the dog on its cover.  Apparently the featured article is about animal intelligence.  The black-and-white border collie stares back, its soul apparent in its dark brown photographic eyes.  Steve absently flips a couple pages, hardly taking in the front matter and ads, then barely focusing on photos of grey parrots and horses and elephants.  He’s not actually getting anywhere, but he’s starting to see why Bucky likes the magazines so much.  It puts something real and marginally pleasant under his face so he doesn’t have to think about other things he wishes weren’t real.

 

“There you go,” Bucky says, setting a plate in front of Steve.  It’s ham, cheese, and eggs on toasted bread.  It smells delicious, but Steve has no appetite.

 

“Thanks,” Steve murmurs.  He lets the National Geographic fall closed.

 

“I know you’re probably not hungry,” Bucky says, practically reading Steve’s mind.  “But eat that.  It’ll make you stop feeling sick.  Or at least it’ll knock your blood sugar back up to normal.”  He retreats to the kitchen to plate up his own fried egg on toast, then comes to sit beside Steve.

 

They eat quietly as _Livin’ on a Prayer_ plays in the background.  Steve’s midway through his sandwich and Bucky’s scraping the last of his yolk off his plate when a phone starts ringing from the vicinity of the living room.

 

“Damnit,” Bucky mutters, dropping his fork and going to retrieve it.  “What?” he asks when he answers.

 

Steve can clearly hear Nat on the other end even though the phone’s not on speaker.  She’s shouting, and his hearing’s enhanced.

 

“Steve’s not answering,” Nat says.

 

“Yeah, I told you, he’s not feeling so good.  And I think I tossed his phone in the laundry,” Bucky answers.

 

“Have you seen the news?”

 

“No.  And I’m not guessing we want to.”

 

“You might.  Cops shot down 3 suspects from the youth camp kidnapping Steve responded to this morning.  Apparently they were opening fire on civilians on the streets, so the police returned the favor,” Nat describes.

 

“Well, that’s something,” Bucky says.

 

Steve sets down his sandwich.  He’s immediately relieved that it sounds like Salt-and-pepper and at least two of his henchmen are dead now.  The severely repressed more sadistic side of his mind’s been wishing for it since before the stall door closed and locked in his fate.  But then, he’s re-wounded that the fact of it doesn’t actually do anything relieve his pain.

 

“There’s a fourth in custody.  He’s going by William White, but it’s probably an alias,” Nat says.  She pauses.  “I need Steve’s mission report.”

 

“He’s not really up to it right now,” Bucky hedges.

 

“The cops called SHIELD when he started talking about…stuff he says they did to…” Nat trails off.  “I need a mission report to confirm or deny…”

 

“Ok,” Bucky says slowly.  He shoots a glance at Steve, who pushes his plate away and lowers his eyes to the table.

 

“So?” she presses.

 

“What’re you asking me, Nat?”

 

“Did Steve…did something happen?  This morning?”

 

There’s an uncomfortably long silence.  Steve follows the swirl of dark-to-light coloring on the top piece of toast.

 

“God, really, I can’t be the one to answer that,” Bucky whispers.  And with that, he gives his answer.

 

“I need to know if this dickwad’s telling the truth.”

 

“I don’t know, Nat.”  Bucky’s starting to get loud too.  “Who all’s there listening to it?”

 

“No one, so far.  I took the call.  I responded.  There are a couple of dumb beat cops around, but that’s it.  They’re trying to get security footage from the incident, but there was a bad camera angle and the light’s really dim.  Listen, I need to know if my firearm needs to accidentally discharge when I step back into the interrogation room.”  There’s something that sounds almost like tears tainting Nat’s voice.

 

“God, I don’t know,” Bucky says again.

 

Steve buries his face in his hands.  He sees the bulky skinhead straining at his handcuffs, the faded swastika tattoo peeking up on the back of his neck.  “It wasn’t him,” he gets out in a monotone. 

 

“Hm?” Bucky asks, glancing Steve’s way. 

 

“It wasn’t him.  I mean, it wasn’t…that one,” Steve repeats, loud enough for hopefully everyone to hear.

 

“You, uh, got that?” Bucky asks.

 

“Noted,” Nat replies in a growl.  Then she continues, “Steve, I will shoot this guy.  I swear, I will.  If it will make any difference to you, I’ll do it. 

 

The reality is that it won’t make a difference, not in the long run.  Sure, there could be a moment of vindictive satisfaction, and it might keep the story from coming out immediately, but with almost 70 witnesses, who’s he kidding?  It’s not going to make a difference.  It’ll maintain his reputation as respectful and non-retaliatory.  And submissive.  And weak…

 

“No,” he whispers.  Then, louder.  “No.  I—if the cops already…It wasn’t.  No.”

 

Nat sighs, and so does Bucky.  “Ok…Ok, well,” she says, “I’ll get him thrown in maximum security.  For life.” 

 

“Thanks,” Bucky murmurs blandly.

 

“You get him ok again,” Nat says to Bucky, sounding teary again.  “You get him well again.  Or I’ll never fucking forgive you.”

 

“Yeah.  He’s gonna need time.  A lot of time.”

 

“I’ll take care of it.  Put in with SHIELD, make sure privacy’s maintained,” Nat offers.  “Don’t worry about anything but getting him back to normal.”

 

“Will do,” Bucky says. 

 

“Alright.”  Nat hangs up. 

 

Bucky abandons his phone and zips back to Steve’s side.  Steve drops his forehead into his partner’s waistband, and Bucky cards through Steve’s hair.

 

“How do you feel?” Bucky asks.  He slides his flesh hand under Steve’s jaw as if feeling his temperature.

 

“Disgusting,” Steve mumbles.  And he truly does, on so many levels. 

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says.  “Yeah, I know.  But you look pretty clean to me.  You smell good.”

 

It’s a small gesture.  Steve knows Bucky’s trying to reinforce that he’s not tainted; being had doesn’t make him unlovable.  Steve wants to believe him.  He just can’t yet. 

 

He can plaster himself as tightly to Bucky’s body as he possibly can.  Cocooning into his lover’s arms gives him something like a 6 foot, 200 pound shield to help block out the disruptions of the rest of the world.

 

 _I Just Died in your Arms Tonight_ starts to play from Bucky’s Pandora station. 

 

“Do you wanna go upstairs?” Bucky asks.  Steve practically feels him wrinkle his nose as he starts to re-phrase so it doesn’t seem like as much of a turn-on.  God knows that’s not what Steve needs right now.  “I mean, just lie down for a while.  Take a nap.  I don’t know.”  It’s 4:00 in the afternoon.  Their schedule’s thoroughly hosed.

 

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.

 

Bucky gives in to the old habit of maternal disappointment for a moment while he drops Steve’s unfinished food into a Tupperware (“You need 4,000 calories a day to function, and you’ve had probably less than 400…”), then goes back to 100% support and holds Steve’s had as he limps up the stairs.

 

They fall into bed and entwine face-to-face.  Steve’s forehead nestles neatly into Bucky’s neck, and he presses his freezing feet against the cuffs of Bucky’s sweatpants. 

 

“It’s not fair to you.  That I’m…broken,” Steve whispers, trying to keep the warble of emotion out of his tone. 

 

“’S less fair to you,” Bucky murmurs back.  The vibration of his throat moves soothingly against Steve’s face.  He silently moves his fingers up and down Steve’s back.  “It’s not gonna be like this forever.  ‘M not saying it’s ever gonna go away, but, it’s not always gonna be this bad.”

 

“Hm.” 

 

It takes a while, but eventually Bucky’s right.  The next 72 hours are spent predominantly in bed, covers drawn up over the lump of their unmoving and sometimes trembling bodies.  It’s a small victory when Steve ventures downstairs to retrieve a copy of National Geographic. 

 

Finally, almost a week later, Steve shifts in Bucky’s embrace as pale morning light filters through the curtains.  “I think…” he murmurs around a yawn, “I think we should have pancakes.”

 

Bucky scrubs over his own eyes before gracing his fingers down Steve’s cheek and lightly kissing his forehead.  “I think that sounds amazing.”

**Author's Note:**

> We all survived? And hopefully somewhat enjoyed it?
> 
> Did any of you watch series 2 of American Crime? I was getting vibes the whole time I was writing this. I keep imagining the part when Steve gets home as a movie with a bunch of scene cuts. Steve about to get in the shower CUT Steve puking and Bucky screaming his head off CUT Both of them sitting on the floor CUT both of them sitting in the bathtub CUT Steve taking a bunch of ibuprofen...
> 
> Ok, onto my usual...
> 
> Reqs are cool. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are my jams. I also write Criminal Minds; I've been thinking about digging out some of my old scribbles and getting them into actual story format. I like migraine!Spencer.


End file.
